


Ilium

by HognoseSnake



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Sometimes you just gotta be sad, The Iliad, War, liberal use of classics and greek mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29681379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HognoseSnake/pseuds/HognoseSnake
Summary: The one where Dream is Achilles, George is Patroclus, and war is Hell.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 59





	Ilium

**Author's Note:**

> Was rereading Troy stuff for school and became Emotional, so this is just a short thing to enact catharsis and recharge my jets before getting stuck into chapter 8 of Black & Blue.
> 
> Disclaimers:  
> 1) This is a relatively scrubbed clean version of the Iliad, that is to say I'm not including all the slavery and SA and other more disturbing things in this retelling. I'm not trying to make the story more palatable than it was and I'm not trying to erase those elements of the text. I just don't think it's super appropriate to include in a "lighthearted" retelling featuring real people who play block game. 
> 
> 2) Mind the major character death tag. Spoilers for the Iliad also, I guess, if you've managed to avoid them for 2000+ years.
> 
> 3) The casting of the DSMP in this might not be super accurate or anything but I really just wanted an excuse to write George angst lmao. 
> 
> CW: Blood, Gore, Major Character Death

_μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος_

_Sing to me, Muse, of the rage of Achilles_

“Any progress?” Tubbo asked anxiously, as Techno entered the tent. He threw his helmet down and shook out his braided hair.

“None,” he said, running a hand over his head, damp with sweat, damp with blood. “The walls are holdin’.”

Tubbo sighed in frustration. “And?”

“What do you mean _and_ , Tubbo? We’re not gettin’ in unless we find a way to breech the walls.”

“But have we p-“

“No, we’ve not pushed them back, all we’ve done is spill blood on the battlefield for the nth day in a row, there, are you happy with that field report now?” he snapped, unbuckling his sword from where it hung at his side. He tossed it to the corner with the rest of his discarded gear.

“Stop stropping, for Zeus’ sake,” Tubbo said, “It’s giving me a headache.” Techno waved a hand dismissively.

“What’s givin’ _me_ a headache are those fuckin’ wayward cousins of ours,” Techno bit back, and watched with dull satisfaction as Tubbo’s back stiffened.

“Don’t-“

“Don’t what? Don’t say their names?”

“Don’t call them our cousins,” Tubbo said plaintively, “as far as I’m concerned we’re not related anymore.”

“All over some fuckin dis-“

“ _Enough_ , Techno,” Tubbo said, as sternly as he dared, and Techno acquiesced, putting his hands up in surrender. Tubbo turned back to the map, like staring at it would reveal some fatal error the Trojans were making. Like staring at it would make Tommy and Wilbur come to their senses.

“You know,” Tubbo started, because Techno had been riling him up, and maybe it was petty, but he was in the mood to argue, “If Dream would just come fight-“

Techno snorted derisively.

“Seriously, he-“

“I _know_ , but he’s still throwing a hissy fit, so forget it,” Techno said.

“I don’t get why you can’t just give him his stuff back,” Tubbo said, turning back to him. He was combing out his braid with his fingers, and shot Tubbo a thunderous look.

“Because it’s not _his_ stuff, it’s _my_ stuff,” he said, “and if we give in, that’s just an excuse for everyone else to stop fightin’ ‘cause it’ll show them that just stayin’ at home will get them what they want.”

“It was given to him,” Tubbo said, crossing his arms.

“The _implication_ was that he’d give _some_ to me,” Techno said, “he was bein’ rude.”

“And the whole war is worth your principles and a couple of treasures, is it?”

“It’s what separates us from the Trojans,” Techno said, accusatorily. He got to his feet and made his way over to the map. “Maybe there’s something we’ve missed. We don’t need him.”

* * *

“Dream, come on,” George whined, “I’m _bored_.”

“What,” Dream laughed, “You’d rather be out on the battlefield getting killed?”

“It’d be something to _do,_ at least!”

“You’re so dumb,” Dream laughed, leaning back on his cot.

“Yeah, well you’re a whiny baby,” George said.

The tent was lusciously decorated, with rich, soft rugs and glittering treasures. Space enough for the two of them to lounge without having to brush knees.

George and Dream had known each other as long as they could remember, growing up on the same island, training together, living together, eating together. Their families were close as well; royalty from Phthia. It had been an honour to go to war.

Things had quickly gone sour. He was not _respected_ , here, treated as another warrior on the battle, someone else for the two generals to push around as they wished. To _take_ what they wished from him. Entitled. As if the honour of being here and taking part in their feud over a bunch of discs was glory enough, and they should be so _lucky_ as to have their war prizes taken from them by the generals.

“I’m more than willing to fight,” Dream said mildly, “as soon as-“

“Right, that makes it _so_ much better,” George said dryly, “that you’re sitting here and waiting for your _toys_ to be given back.”

“It’s not about the _stuff_ , it’s-“

“If it’s not about the _stuff_ then why not just fight?” George asked despairingly.

“Why would I fight? It’s their stupid argument over, like, whatever the fuck,” he said, sitting back up. George was giving him that look he gave when he thought Dream was being an idiot. It was one he was deeply familiar with.

“Sapnap’s fighting,” George said.

“If Sapnap jumped off a-“ he replied, and then ducked out of the way, laughing, as George threw a pillow at his head.

“That’s not the point,” George said, and his tone was shifting, getting a little more serious. Dream schooled his expression into something more appropriate.

“Sapnap, Bad, Skeppy, they’re all out there fighting alone. They’re our friends, we should help.”

Dream thought carefully, chose his words precisely. “If they were smart, they’d work out that it’s all pointless.”

“That’s-“

“Why are we _here,_ George?” Dream asked gesturing vaguely. “A thousand miles away from Phthia, and for what? Some fuckin’ discs? Some fight between a family we barely know? And then they go and like, disrespect us, and take our stuff, and get into arguments with us all the time like we _have_ to be here. That’s the point. We don’t _have_ to be here. We could be at home, drunk in the middle of the day off the good wine.”

“Well, we’re not-“

“-yeah, no shit.”

“We’re not,” George continued, louder, “so we might as well not sit here like lemons while we’re here.”

“I’m not dying for like, a bunch of people I barely know just ‘cause it’s ‘something to do’-“ Dream said, ducking out of the way of the next pillow, laughing at George’s sputtered ‘I don’t sound like that’. He chucked a pillow back, landing it squarely on George’s face, and cheered. George laughed a little in spite of himself.

They lapsed into comfortable silence, wrung from the years they had known each other.

“You won’t fight, then?” George asked eventually, and Dream swallowed down the urge to groan.

“If fighting’s so like, important and moral or whatever, why don’t you just go do it?” Dream asked, turning his head lazily towards George.

He watched the gears turning in George’s head. Something clicked, apparently.

“Okay,” George said and got to his feet.

_What?_

“What?” Dream laughed incredulously.

“Okay, I’m going to go fight,” George said, making his way over to where his armour lay unused. Dream laughed again, tilting his head back.

“You won’t last five minutes without me,” he grinned lazily.

“That’s five minutes I’m doing the right thing, then,” George shot back. Dream picked his head up, watching George strap his sandals on.

Oh. He was being. Serious.

“George-“ he said, sitting up again.

“You said so yourself,” George said, slipping into his tunic, “I can’t make _you_ do anything, but _I’m_ going to do what’s right.”

“George, come on,” he said, sighing.

“If you think it’s such a bad idea,” George said, pausing and turning to him, something akin to a self-satisfied smirk on his face, “come fight with me, then.”

George seemed committed, which was worrying. Once he made a conviction there wasn’t much anything anyone could do to change his mind. They’d never fought alone before, outside of training. Dream had always been too paranoid in battle to be more than five feet from him.

_Emotional blackmail wouldn’t work._

It was _very_ effective though. Was he really going to let George wander off on his own? Over some petty feud?

Not petty. He reminded himself. Not petty. He had to stand his ground. He was making a point…or something. What was this war to him? He deserved respect. He wouldn’t fight, no matter what dumb stunt George was pulling.

George shrugged with affected nonchalance, and went back to strapping on his armour.

“Wait, wait” Dream said, standing up, “at least take mine.”

“What?” George laughed, “There’s no way it’ll fit me.”

“It’s stronger and you know it,” he said, going over to where his sat, still gleaming. The thick, bright green tunic, and the pale chest plate. The helmet was made of that same strange, pale metal, a thick black plume busting up from it.

The metal was light, but strong. He didn’t really understand it. He didn’t have to. All he knew was that it would keep him safe. And if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for George.

“But-“

“Please?” Dream said, holding out the helmet, “It’ll only go to waste, otherwise.”

There were a few moments of silence, as he watched George consider his options. He sighed, all the fight leaving him in one single breath.

“Fine,” he said, and settled the (admittedly slightly large) helmet over his head. Dream helped him into the chest-plate and handed him his shield. George caught a brief sight of his reflection in the bucket of water they used to wash, and burst out into embarrassed giggles.

“I look _just_ like you, by the Gods,” he said, groaning.

“Yeah, you look better than you have in years,” Dream grinned. George punched him on the shoulder, muttering _fuck off_ under his breath.

He turned to go, and Dream had half a moment of sheer, blinding panic. It was too risky, letting George go alone. He’d certainly die, without Dream to keep an eye on him. He wasn’t half as strong as Dream. There wouldn’t be anyone watching to make sure he didn’t die. For a moment, he was so _certain_ that he called after him.

George paused, turning back. _Wait,_ he thought _give me my armour back. We’ll both go. You’re right._

The moment passed. He was making a point. The war was nothing to him. The risk was pointless. George was a strong warrior, he’d come back with a few scratches, but otherwise fine.

He walked over to him and put a heavy hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“Just be careful, alright?” And then, when that sounded too sincere, “Don’t scratch up my armour.”

George smiled and put a hand on his forearm.

“Alright. Of course.”

* * *

It had been going fine. In the thick of battle, the ground churned up underneath their feet, a light drizzle making it just slightly treacherous underfoot.

He was charging through, cutting his way through Trojans, fighting alongside Sapnap, when suddenly they’d been separated in the rhythm and thrum of battle, standing alone, flanked by the dead.

He turned, for a moment, to assess, to see where the fighting was the thickest, and then-

Something in his side. Sharp.

He turned his head, but his limbs felt all sluggish. His legs felt unsteady, suddenly, and as he tried to take a step he collapsed to his knees, slumped backwards over into the mud.

He tried to take a deep breath, to get to his feet, to run, to fight back. He hacked up a cough filled with blood instead.

A shadow appeared above him, armour gleaming in spite of the cloudy day. The helmet was distinctive enough – George had seen the silhouette many times from the warmth of his tent.

Wilbur frowned slightly.

“You’re not Dream,” he said, sounding disappointed. “You’re the other one.”

George tried not to be scared. He tried to take a deep breath to stop the racing of his heart, but only succeeded in coughing up more blood.

“Well,” he said, putting a hand on the spear in his side, “another Greek dead, at least. I’d tell you to bring a message to my cousins, but somehow I don’t think you’ll get that far.”

He was dying here. He was going to die here, alone, on a muddy battlefield, and Dream…

Dream…

Dream.

George grinned around a mouthful of blood, spitting out a globule, taking a hacking breath in. “If you kill me…” he said, voice reedy and thin, “it’ll be the last mistake you ever make.”

“I don’t think you’re in much of a position to say anything about ‘mistakes’,” Wilbur said, crouching down slightly, gripping on to the spear, pushing it in a little more forcefully. George let out a strangled groan, coughed up a little more blood.

“You….you had it easy, up... until now,” he managed, gasping around the hole in his chest, “Dream wasn’t fighting.”

“Ah, of course. Dream, The hero of the Greeks. Who sat alone in his tent and let his friends die,” Wilbur said, rolling his eyes. “How fearsome.”

“If you kill me,” George pressed on, doggedly, his voice hoarse now, gasping, wheezing, “there will be nothing… _nothing_ left of you but your name.”

Wilbur stood and drew his sword. “I’ll take my chances.”

* * *

The sun had long since set by the time he heard people returning from the battle.

Dream immediately burst out of his tent. They should have been back hours ago. He watched, in the flickering torch light, as people he barely recognised limped home, cradling broken limbs, propping each other up. Dragging each other home.

_Where was he?_

He was wearing his armour, anyway, he should have been easy to spot. The obnoxiously green fabric and the pale helmet made a pretty distinctive silhouette. He should have been able to spot him a mile away.

“Dream,” someone said, and Dream nearly jumped out of his skin. Sapnap. How’d he gotten so close without him noticing?

_He glanced at him. Up and down. No major injuries, save for the nicks and cuts that were still gently weeping._

“Sapnap, wh-“

“Techno wants to talk to you,” he said. His face was angled in shadow. Dream scowled and rolled his eyes.

“I told you, I’m not talking to him ‘til he gives me back what’s mine,” he said, shaking his head.

There was a tense silence.

“D-“

He turned back to the crowd, scanning through the bodies, finding nothing. Injured men, licking their wounds.

“Dream…”

“I said _no_ , Sapnap,” he said, still scanning through the crowd. Maybe he’d missed him, maybe he was with a healer, “hey, have you seen-“

“Dream,” Sapnap said, cutting him off, and there was something very final in his tone. Dream turned back to him, seeing something mournful, something urgent in the half of his face he could see. “You need to go talk to Techno.” 

Dream furrowed his eyebrows, narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong. Something was _badly_ wrong.

“I wouldn’t be asking you,” Sapnap said, slowly, carefully, “if it wasn’t important.”

Dream breathed out a long, slow breath. “Okay,” he said eventually, picking up a torch, “okay. Okay.”

Sapnap put a warm hand on his back and led him through the camp, up towards the fields.

It had been raining earlier, a pleasant respite from the heat, but now the ground was frustratingly damp underfoot. Not quite wet enough to become loamy mud, just damp enough that your foot sank in. It annoyed him. He’d track mud through into the tent and get yelled at, maybe something thrown at his head. It’d be light, if he was lucky.

Techno was standing on a flat ground, bodies lined up beside him, someone walking along methodically and laying coins on their eyes, washing them the best they could. Something stirred in him, he couldn’t deny that seeing so many dead churned up guilt from the silt of his soul. He knew what was coming though, Techno would gesture to the corpses, maybe that one that was at his feet, say something about how he was worth three men, how if he joined the pointless family feud no more would die, blah blah blah. He’d heard it all before. If Techno really wanted him on the field, he’d give him his stuff back. Simple.

“What,” he asked, not bothering to hide the coldness in his voice.

“Dream,” Techno started, and he was using that same careful tone that Sapnap had taken.

“What, Techno, keep this quick, I’m waiting for someone,“ he said, rolling his eyes. Techno glanced, almost nervously, over at Sapnap. He felt Sapnap give him two hearty pats on the back, and heard him turn and go. Dream barely supressed the urge to roll his eyes again. _Always so dramatic with this guy_.

“Come on, dude, just-“

“I’m sorry,” Techno said, and that was enough to get Dream to shut up. That was new. Dream glanced over at him, and took note of the careful expression on his face. Of his own helmet under Techno’s arm.

Techno lowered his eyes to the body between them. Covered in blood, limbs neatly arranged. No coins on his eyes. Dark hair, pale skin made nearly orange by the torchlight. Stubble that looked a day old but was probably about three because he could barely grow a beard. Green armour.

He felt all his breath leave him in a rush.

_No._

He couldn’t think.

_No, no_.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t-

He sunk to his knees, dropping the torch. It quietly went out, dampened by the muck.

Dream was aware that his face was damp, his eyes burning. There was a horrible ragged tearing sound and it took several moments to realise that was the sound of his own breathing, struggling past something that had lodged itself in his lungs.

Grief. Grief.

He couldn’t look. He couldn’t bare to look away. There was a gap in the armour, where a projectile had lodged itself in its chest. His throat was slit, besides, so at least it wasn’t painful, he thought wildly, but it had been, of course it had been.

_I look just like you_ , he’d said, when he’d left. That must’ve been it. The Trojans must have been so pleased, that he was joining the fight, that they’d finally have a chance to take the Greeks’ precious fighter from the field. But it hadn’t _been_ Dream, it had been _him_. Now, he was-

_He couldn’t say it._

No coins on his eyes, yet. Maybe he’d have to do that himself. Maybe it would be a fraction the penance for what he’d done. Maybe Techno and Tubbo could contribute too, to pay back what he’d lost to their stupid fucking war over nothing. Their stupid fucking war over _nothing_ that he’d refused to fight in, and for what? A handful of gold? A necklace? Was any of that more valuable than-

_He couldn’t say it._

The ground was soft and damp as he curled his fingers into it, dragging up fistfuls of mud. Wet mud, bits of grass, which would continue to grow and be eaten and grow again, fertilized by the dead. By-

_He couldn’t say it. He still couldn’t say it._

“Who?” he asked, voice rough, cracking, broken. His forehead had tipped forward, resting against the corpse’s blood-soaked chest. Cold. Stinking. Reeking of decay and iron and war. Below that, the rich smell of mud and grass. Life.

The grass would grow. Troy would still stand. Men not worth _half_ of him would live twice as long. The man who had thrown the speer that had cut through the armour, who had slit his throat, would have children and see his children’s children, and would get to die quietly at home in a warm bed with his friends and family.

He felt it rise thick in his throat, choking out the grief. The acrid burning or rage, from somewhere deep within. The thrumming of his heart, still beating, still beating, still beating. All-encompassing fury, a tensing of his muscles. A need to do something. A need to even the scales.

“ _Who?”_ he asked again, lifting his head. He stared up at where Techno was still standing, face carefully neutral.

He couldn’t imagine what he must look like. Face contorted in fury. Hands white-knuckled in the soft earth. Covered in the cold, dried blood of-

_He still couldn’t say it. He still couldn’t say it._

“Wilbur,” he said eventually, “Wilbur Soot.” His brother, sort of. His friend. That should have complicated things.

It made no difference to Dream. He nodded stiffly, turning his gaze back towards the body.

He could have been sleeping, if it wasn’t for all the blood. He should have been sleeping. A part of him was still convinced it was an elaborate joke to get him to join the war. That once he came back from battle the next evening, he’d be lounging on his cot, laughing at him for how worked up he got over what turned out to be nothing, grinning smugly at how much better their odds were now. Dream would probably cry with relief and then punch him in the jaw but be too happy that he was okay to care. They’d fight the way they were meant to- side by side, shoulder to shoulder. They’d tally kills. They’d annoy each other. They’d win the war and go home. His dad would greatly exaggerate the odds they’d beaten, and if they were lucky maybe they’d end up in as a footnote in an epic long after they died as senile, grey old men.

He opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure when he’d closed them.

George was dead.

He looked up at Techno, still holding his helmet, slightly bloodied, gleaming pale in the moonlight.

He held a hand out for it.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IN8FXsIOibo&list=PLgPKmF5rEZ5rU-feXjcfRpi95vnPW2f_7
> 
> That's a list of cat videos if you want to make yourself feel better after what I've just done. I'm sorry, but also I did warn you.
> 
> Snakey love,
> 
> hiss hiss
> 
> \---
> 
> Alternate ending: 
> 
> Then George sat up. 
> 
> "Wow!" said Dream, who wasn't angsting anymore, "how'd you do that?" 
> 
> "Totem of Undying," said George. 
> 
> "Pog," said Techno.
> 
> "Pog," said Dream.
> 
> "Pog," said George.


End file.
